Rebecca Eaton has the all-time great English major job: as executive producer of Masterpiece Theater, now known simply as Masterpiece.

I'd never heard of her, and her name has nothing to do with the fact that the heroine of my book River of Fire is named Rebecca Seaton. But when I heard that her memoir about her work, Making Masterpiece, , was coming out last fall, I immediately ordered it. Partly that was because I'm always interested in how stories are filmed (I wrote a novel around that subject), but more because Masterpiece Theater had such an impact on me and many of the people I know.

Nicola here, fresh back from the RWA conference in San Antonio, Texas, where I met up with several of the other Wenches plus other friends old and new, and had the best time!

This is the July What We’re Reading. This month though, we’ve decided to shake it up a bit and call it “What Wenches Recommend.” This could be anything from books to food to places to visit or anything you like. So once you’ve seen a few of our favourite things this month, let us know your recommendations too!

First up, an old favourite from Pat:

I've not had a lot of good luck with books this month, but found a complete collection of the Jeeves and Wooster series with Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry. We'd not seen all of them so really enjoyed catching up on missed episodes. If you haven't read the original P.G.Wodehouse stories, give some of them a try first so you can see how beautifully they carry out these characters!

Cara/Andrea here, apologizing for still moaning and groaning about the stresses of my impending move. it's been a rough couple of months as I have been both selling my old place and buying a new one. The purchase went smooth a a Regency silk gown (and it fits just as nicely—I love it and can't wait to get my stuff—much culled down— settled there later this week. Alas, the seling part hashad more than enough stresses for both transactions. The buyer is, to be polite, the Buyer from Hell. And so, I am invoking the Wench Rule of posting an oldie but goodie today (I promise this is the last shirking of Wenchly duites!) This one is all about rewarding one's elf for getting through a tough deadline. It involves chocolate—and trust me, I feel I deserve a reward when this is finally done! (Which, Knock on Wood, is scheduled for early next week.)

So without further ado, here's a vintage post on finishing one of my chocolate mysteries:

Labor Day, that annual September rite of passage, is a signal to many of us that hey, the lazy days of summer are over and it’s time to buckle down to serious work again. But what with looming deadlines and some unexpected travel opportunities, I didn’t have a lot of time for lollygagging these past few months.

September 1 was the due date for Sweet Revenge, my first historical mystery (due out sometime next year with NAL . . . but more on that in a later blog. Suffice it to say it’s set in the Regency, and chocolate plays an important role in the plot.) As this was my first foray into a new genre, I fretted more than usual over the typical writer worries one goes through as a story progresses—is the plot too convoluted? . . . is the pacing too slow? . . . is the heroine too dark?

The manuscript also required a lot more research than usual, and in a subject that is not remotely in my comfort zone. Indeed, I owe a great deal of thanks to a dear lawyer friend who spent a number of hours patiently—very patiently—explaining John Law, the basics of economic theory and the concept of debt-equity swaps. Lest your eyes start glazing over at this moment, I assure you that the book will not be as boring as you might fear. At least, I hope not.

In any case, the manuscript is Done and Delivered. Which brings me roundabout to the real topic of my ramblings. Which is Reward.

But allow me to digress a moment longer . . .

In golf, there is a basic concept in designing a course that is called Risk-Reward. In other words, an architect usually provides two ways to play a hole: you can be safe and take a path with fewer hazards, but are unlikely to reap the reward of making a birdie or eagle (those are Good Things for you non-golfers) Or, you can try a risky shot, like hitting over water, or a deep ravine. If you miss, you’ll really muck up your score, but if you hit it right, you usually get rewarded.

Now, keeping with the golf metaphor, I figure that I took a risk by trying something new, so deserve a reward. So, despite another deadline coming up in November for my next romance book, I decided to allow myself a few small indulgences last week, which I break into the following categories:

Practical Rewards

My drawers were getting to the really scary stages of shove-and-shut, so I decided to treat myself to straightening up the clutter. I cleaned out all my summer things, took them to the attic, and brought down fall stuff. Sweaters, flannel shirts, turtlenecks, corduroys, jeans are now all neatly folded, with arms and legs not twitching to escape when I close the drawer. The closet is weeded out, and I can actually get a hanger off the bar without knocking its neighbor to the floor. And shoes are standing in parade row precision. Okay, it won’t last for long, but it did give me a warm and fuzzy feeling of accomplishment.)

Sweat Rewards

It was a perfect day last Wednesday, cool, crisp, not a cloud in the day. At 2 pm, when during the course of a normal writing day I usually put another loop of duct tape around my legs to keep me in my chair, I played hooky and went to walk 9 holes of golf. It was glorious, even though the seagulls kept giving me the evil eye, as if to say, “why are you out here right now, and not at work?” Exercise is important, and sunshine has Vitamin D, so in reality, it shouldn’t really count as a reward, but merely part of a writer’s training regime. (I do a lot of plotting as I walk.)

Which is why, when all was said and done, I still needed to give myself . . .

The Ultimate Reward

The new book features a chocolate recipe at the beginning of each chapter (yes, more research, but in that field I consider myself an expert!) So after looking them all over, I picked one to make. Here it is . . .

1. Preheat oven to 350°F with rack in middle. Butter and flour a 13- by 9-inch baking pan.2. Melt butter and chocolate with espresso powder in a 3-quart heavy saucepan over low heat, whisking until smooth. Remove from heat and cool to lukewarm. Whisk in sugar and vanilla. Whisk in eggs 1 at a time until mixture is glossy and smooth.3. Whisk together flour, cinnamon, and salt, then whisk into chocolate mixture.4. Spread batter in pan and bake until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out with crumbs adhering, 25 to 30 minutes. Cool completely before cutting.

After taking it out of the oven, I let it cool to lukewarm, then cut a large square. Once again, it was the middle of the afternoon, sunlight dancing through the trees. Throwing guilt to the wind, I curled up on the couch with a book. Oh, bliss . . . .

So, how about you? Do you reward yourself for achieving a goal, or doing an onerous task? And what’s your favorite treat? Sweets? Shopping? Museums?

Today I come to you with a humble heart full of gratitude and thanksgiving. Sparky continues to improve, thanks to your many prayers, good wishes, healing energy, Reiki, financial donations, emotional support, and the wonders of modern veterinary medicine. They say it takes a village to raise a child, and I say it takes a village to heal a cat. A village of compassionate Sparky fans and friends. After posting the GoFundMe donation page for Sparky, I sat back in wonder as the donations began pouring in. You guys mean business! Sparky and I thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

And now, the Sparky news! It's all good. In fact, Sparky is doing so well that she's brimming over with enthusiasm and high-jinks. She's making up for lost time. What has she been doing, you say? Oh, the usual . . .

. . . like thundering across the sofa and tumbling the pillows

Or attacking the legs of my long-suffering Boxer. (Just look at the pitiful expression on Shona's face!)

Or opening my desk drawer and snooping inside to see what goodies she can steal.

Or stealing elastic hair ties.

Or Q-Tips.

Not much gets past Sparky. She has a built-in radar when it comes to her medication, and she's ever vigilant, lest I try to smuggle a pill in her food.

Sparky keeping a suspicious eye on me as I prepare her dinner and attempt to slip her daily pill in the food.

So you can see that Sparky's back in rare form. I wouldn't have her any other way!

Today we are delighted to welcome Emma Campion, author of the newly released A Triple Knot--a novel of the mysterious and dazzling medieval beauty, Joan of Kent--and its previous companion novel, The King's Mistress. As some of you may already know, Emma also writes medieval mysteries as Candace Robb.

Candace, who would become Emma in 2008, was born in the 20th century in North Carolina to parents who had just recently moved from New York City. From a very early age she had a sense of really belonging nowhere, so she could choose. An auspicious beginning for a writer. She grew up through ambitions to be a tap dancer, a singer, a ballerina, a journalist covering the Viet Nam War, a professor of medieval and Anglo-Saxon literature, the author of fantasy and science fiction novels, the author of historical novels, the author of historical crime novels—and that’s how she came to write The Apothecary Rose, the first Owen Archer mystery, which eventually led to changing her name, changing her mind about Alice Perrers, and writing, as Emma Campion, The King’s Mistress. That book, as well as the 10th Owen Archer mystery, A Vigil of Spies, led to the current novel about Joan of Kent, A Triple Knot (originally titled The Hero’s Wife, then Rebel Pawn). Breathlessly, that’s Emma’s story.

A Triple Knot is garnering lots of lovely praise. Joan of Kent, ward of her cousin King Edward III, is destined for a politically strategic marriage. Betrothed to the heir of a powerful family, Joan is haunted by her father's execution and distrusts her royal kin--and so she pledges herself to one of the king’s own knights. Furious, the king forces Joan into another politically auspicious marriage--one that she and her beloved will struggle a decade to dissolve.

“A Triple Knot is a brilliant, tender portrait of a passionate woman in dangerous times,” says Chris Nickson, author of the Richard Nottingham novels. And Diane Haeger, author of The Secret Bride, says: “With a deft eye for detail and a wonderfully authentic evocation of time and place, Campion has delivered what is certain to become a classic.”

I was fortunate to read an advanced copy of A Triple Knot, and loved it. Campion's 14th century is vivid and authentic, with characters that are as convincing as the setting--and Joan, sometimes glossed over in the hstory books as the Fair Maid of Kent and little more, is complex yet sympathetic. It's an exciting, compelling read.

And after reading it, I quickly invited Emma/Candace to visit the blog! Here's her interview:

Susan: Emma, welcome to Word Wenches! I loved A Triple Knot, and appreciated how very well you combined your love and knowledge of English medieval history with a gift for storytelling to explore the story of Joan of Kent, first cousin to Edward III. Writing about “the fair maid of Kent” (a later moniker but possibly founded in truth, with the story of Joan's garter slipping down, the king's comment to save her embarrassment--Honi soit qui mal y pense, essentially "shame to him who thinks badly of it"--and the subsequent Order of the Garter) -- must have been a real challenge. Joan's life combined fairytale with soap opera – but not a lot is known about the circumstances and motivations in her life.

How did you approach the historical facts to create such strong, detailed historical fiction?

Emma:I began with the facts that went right to the heart of the matter (I’ll mention only one of the three, so as not to spoil the story for those who don’t know it): Joan of Kent chose to be buried beside Thomas Holland rather than Edward, the Black Prince. I collected all I could find about Joan, Will Montagu, Thomas Holland, and Edward of Woodstock, and began to move them around in my head against the backdrop of what I knew about King Edward III, the queens Isabella and Philippa, the Montagu and Holland families, the years leading up to the Hundred Years War, the foundation of the Order of the Garter, the Black Death, etc., trying to connect the dots by considering motivations and who was where when—essentially, sleuthing.

The biggest challenge, once I was convinced that Thomas and Joan were telling the truth about their betrothal when she was so young, was finding a motivation for their decision to foil King Edward’s plan for her marriage into a Gascon family with the influence and the military might to turn the tide in Gascony. Joan was so very young and Thomas so dependent on the king’s favor, I knew they acted out of desperation, a sense of imminent danger. Discovering the record of a planned betrothal that is never mentioned again was just what I needed. Then it all began to come together. My test was always, how did they feel about this? I let their hearts lead me.

Anne here. I'm at the RWA conference in San Antonio in Texas, where I'm looking forward to a wenchly meet-up with Mary Jo and Jo and Nicola. My first time in San Antonio and it's such a pretty and friendly place. Here's where I ate tonight. I'll post pics from the conference on my FB page if you want to follow that.

But because I feared I'd be jet-lagged and might forget (or be unable to post for some technical travel-glitch reason) to post a blog today, I decided to get organized and put up a post in advance — a quiz.

A lot of people enjoyed the first Regency Slang Quiz I created, so, since there's no shortage of regency slang, here, for a little bit of fun, is Regency Slang Quiz No. 2. You'll need paper and pen to note your answers, then check them by clicking on the link at the end.

1) To darken someone's daylights means: a) to draw the curtains b) to give someone a black eye c) to ruin someone's reputation d) to put coins on the eyelids of a corpse

Nicola here. Today I’m reflecting on the sorts of story ideas that catch our imagination. Last week on my way to the Romantic Novelists’ Association Conference I called in at Boscobel House in Shropshire to do a spot of research. Boscobel is the house where King Charles II hid from the Roundheads after his defeat at the Battle of Worcester in 1651. The story is very famous; hunted by Cromwell’s soldiers in the aftermath of the battle, Charles took refuge in an oak tree in the forest that surrounded Boscobel and he and his officer Captain William Careless (not the most confidence-inspiring name!) slept in the branches whilst the Roundheads scoured the forest around him. Later, cold, wet and in low spirits, Charles was taken to Boscobel House where he took dinner, dried his clothes before the fire and slept in a hiding place in the attic.

It's a miracle! The prognosis for regaining her eyesight was poor, but Sparky is Sparky. That same indomitable spirit that saved her as a tiny 9 ounce orphan when she was only 3 weeks old has come to the rescue again. She beat the odds. Sparky is regaining her eyesight. She's not 100%. Far from it. But she gets better every day. We're hoping for a full recovery, but even if she stabilizes in her current condition, it is enough. She still has trouble seeing things directly in front of her, but the rest of her vision has improved dramatically. It's no wonder Sparky has been playful and happy these past few days. She's even begun stealing my elastic hair bands again!

These pictures show how much Sparky's pupils have closed. They used to cover the entire eye, with no white or color showing. It made you feel like you were looking at a shark's eyes--that same eerie, expressionless stare. But no more. Sparky can see! I can hardly believe it. I have been laughing and crying with joy.

THE DONATION PAGE

After much muttering and tearing of hair, I finally managed to build the GoFundMe donation page for Sparky's medical expenses. Everyone has been so very kind and supportive, and many of you have expressed a desire to help with Sparky's medical care. Thank you for your thoughtfulness and generosity. For those who wish to donate, here is the link to Sparky's page. For each of you who donate something, no matter how small, Sparky and I would like to send you a token of our appreciation, so I'll also need your mailing address.

I've spent a little over $700 so far on Sparky's medical care, and she'll be on Fluconazole for a long time at $35 for a month's supply. I didn't want to appear greedy, so I've set a donation goal of $750.

ANYTHING EXTRA

If donations should happen to exceed $750, I will use the extra money to build Sparky a large outdoor catio. I've been in touch with my carpenter. (Remember Mark? He nicknamed Sparky "Polly" because she's a polydactyl. He's crazy about her and used to let her climb all over him while he worked.) In fact, Mark is so fond of Sparky that he has offered to donate some materials to the cause.

I am just so very happy that Sparky is regaining her eyesight! As I said earlier, everyone has been so generous and kind and supportive. I'd also like to give a shout out for the Word Wenches. Through their good graces they are allowing me to post Sparky updates on Sundays, and it is through those posts that Sparky has gained a fan club!

Right now, Sparky is zooming all over the house. Her joy at being able to see again is contagious!

Hi, Jo here. I was at the British Romantic Novelists Association conference last weekend, which was fun and friendly, but also stirred some interesting ideas.

One speaker talked about how romances are rooted in women's struggles in a man's world. That's true, but it triggered some questions and thoughts about that and historical romance. I'm going to toss them out and I hope you'll argue, expand, spin off them and have fun.

If romance is all about women's struggle in a man's world, then it seems clear that the struggle is more vivid in historicals, where most women in most times and places had far fewer rights, powers, and opportunities than today.

But then, why is the 19th century more popular than earlier ones, such as medieval, when the situation was more dramatically unequal before the law?

(I always think in that cover it looks as if he's doing a push up off her ribs!)

I'm a great fan of historical romance set in Scotland and my questions for the Wenches are: #1) When did Highland men change from wearing braies to kilts and did all Scottish men change over to kilts at the same time? and #2) How was the dirk worn inside their knee high sox kept in place so that it didn't fall out and/or slip down the stocking?

#1) When did Highland men change from wearing braies to kilts and did all Scottish men change over to kilts at the same time? And #2) How was the dirk worn inside their knee high sox kept in place so that it didn't fall out and/or slip down the stocking?

Braies are loose shorts or trousers common throughout the medieval era. Worn long, they were like loose trousers, worn short and under shirts or tunics, they were basically medieval underwear. Braies were perhaps worn in the Celtic cultures too, but not as commonly.

In later centuries, Lowland and Highland men sometimes wore trews, which were like long braies, cut snug to the leg and loose in the crotch (you could dance some good hip-hop in a pair of braies or trews today). A rather fancy pair of Highland tartan trews with matching jacket and cape, worn by an 18th c. gentleman, can be seen in the National Museum of Scotland, and in this painting of Sir John Sinclair by Henry Raeburn.

But by far the most famous garment for the self-respecting Highland man was the wrapped or belted plaid, in the Gaelic breacan-an-fheilidh or feileadh-bhreacain (a wrapped tartan) or the feileadh-mor (great wrap). This was a considerable length of tartan fabric, wool woven of many colors and then folded, wrapped, belted at the waist with the long end piece tossed over the shoulder and pinned, all in a particular method. It was handy for bedding, for rain gear, camouflage, etc. Here's a gorgeous charcoal sketch by David Wilkie of a Highlander.

The wrapped plaid was typically worn without braies –- although Highlanders might have worn braies or trews beneath in very cold weather. They sometimes wrapped the long tails of their linen shirts (leine in Gaelic) and tucked the cloth inside the belt, diaper-like, so contrary to myth, they did actually wear underwear sometimes!

As Cara/Andrea said on Friday, sometime we Wenches go light in our posts, and this one is REALLY light! I don't even have a biscotti recipe to offer. <G> But in the spirit of the summer silly season, I present:

RWA's national romance writers conference! It's next week in San Antonio, and it's surely the world's largest collection of romance writers on the hoof. The annual literacy signing is similarly large, with hundreds of writers signing and thousands of books donated by publishers for sale.

(A pause for a public service announcement: If you're in the neighborhood, ya'll come on down! Zillions of books, and all proceeds are given to literacy organizations. What greater gift can you give than the gift of reading? Lots of romance lovers in Texas, so I'm sure the signing will generate a lot of money for local literacy groups.)

This post is a milestone for Sparky for two reasons: (1) It is the 40th Sparky Report, chronicling the first year in the life of a remarkable orphaned kitten whose will to survive enabled her to overcome all odds; and (2) This marks the first week of Sparky's sudden blindness from an unknown cause. I made the heartbwrenching discovery last Monday. She was fine on Sunday, and blind on Monday. As you can see in the above and below photos, Sparky's pupils are completely dilated, making her eyes look black. To say I'm devastated is an understatement.

Here is where Sparky spends most of her time, now--on her bed on my desk

At this point the blindness is almost total, but that could worsen. She has some vision, but only a very little. She can apparently see light and shadow, but not enough to recognize anything. She can see nothing directly in front of her.

Sick with dread, I rushed Sparky to her veterinarian, and after a battery of expensive lab work, all tests came back negative. More bloodwork comes back tomorrow (Monday). A physical examination revealed no tumors, no injuries, no anomalies. In a race against time to prevent further deterioration of Sparky's remaining vision, my vet arranged for Sparky to be examined by a prominent animal eye specialist in Seattle. He was booked solid, but squeezed us in anyway.

The next day I put Sparky in her carrier and drove 115 miles, and the specialist performed a very thorough examination. (He fell in love with Sparky, and during the examination he kissed her furry little head several times.) His final diagnosis was two-fold--chorioretinitis and optic neuritis. In lay terms, a fungal infection of the eyes and swollen optic nerves. Cause: unknown. Treatment: house confinement and a hideously expensive medication called Fluconazole. Prognosis: guarded.

Despite being blind, Sparky made it to her favorite windowsill. Bless her, she's only fallen off once.

Will Sparky go completely blind? Will she retain the little sight she has left? Will she regain full sight? The answer to all three questions is “possibly.” So there’s equal hope and despair. I shall cling to hope

Here she is moving cautiously from the sill to her bed on my desk. I'm amazed at how well she navigates, despite being only recently blind.

In 3 weeks, Sparky goes back to the eye specialist for a recheck. In the meantime, while I've cried an ocean of tears, Sparky is learning to navigate a dark and shadowy world with the same fierce determination she displayed as an orphan.

This is the first time Sparky fell off her bed while rolling over. Undaunted, she fell asleep again on my desk, rather than trying to find her way back onto the bed.

Sparky is one remarkable cat. She's beaten the odds before, and I have no doubt she'll get through this, too. Case in point: I was absolutely dumbfounded when I happened to glance out the window yesterday afternoon and saw Sparky--who was supposed to be inside the house--making her cautious but determined way up the driveway! And when she heard me coming, the rascal evaded me easily for over ten minutes. So far, Sparky is handling her blindness much better than I am!

Cara/Andrea here,On occasion, rather than wax poetic about some bit of historical research or intriguing person who has caught our fancy, one of us Wenches will invoke the “Life Is Hitting Me Between the Eyes” rule offer up some lighter fare for you to munch on. Well, it’s my turn. I am in the midst of selling my house and buying a new place—the closing take place at the end of this month, and I am in a state of mild—well, more than mild panic. How did I accumulate so much STUFF to sort through. Not to speak of packing up all my books. (The mover who came to estimate the job looked at me with this really puzzled expression and said ,“What do you do? I’ve never seen anything like this.”

So, since I need a lot of energy to keep me going (and we all know sugar is a major food group when one is under stress) I thought I’d share a recipe for biscotti that I recently learned in Tuscany. Granted they won’t taste quite as good as when they are made by the gorgeous and charming Michele and his assistant. (He is a Michelin-starred chef and rather delicious to look at! I was lucky enough to get a cooking lesson from him.) And another word of warning—they should be munched with a glass of prosecco overlooking the rolling Tuscan hills at sunset.

Now, lest you think I was merely lollygagging all morning with Michele, I do have some “research” tips to pass on. In Europe, it’s standard to weigh ingredients rather than measure them as we do. Michele assures me it is far more accurate, and in pastry, precision is the key for the best results. Who am I to argue!

So, without further ado, the recipe, which I guarantee will bring a smile to your lips—along with a delightful kiss of honey. (Apologies to fellow American readers as I have not yet translated the quantities to American weights/measurements.)

2. Sift together flour, baking powder and vanilla powder. Add to egg mixture, slowly at first then quickly, mixing just to combine.

3. Toast the almonds for 3 minutes in the oven at 200 C, chop in food processor, then mixture into batter.

4. Put batter in a pastry bag and pipe out lines of the dough (1.5-2 inches wide) well spaced, on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper. Bake at 200 C for 7-9 minutes.

5. Let cool, slice on diagonal to make “biscotti,” then put them back in the pan and bake at 180 C or 8 minutes. Serve with chilled vin santo! Perfect summer fare! (Or winter fare with hot chocolate for our readers who reside in the Southern hemisphere.

So a quick question before I head back to the kitchen. Do you have a favorite comfort when you are under stress? These biscotti are wonderful, but my real go-to treat are blondies with golden raisins and walnuts, baked a little underdone so they are really gooey! They always seem to make me feel better no matter what!

Joanna here: The other day, we had a bit of a storm -- buckets of rain, impenetrable clouds walking up the hill and past my window, trees lashing back and forth like mad things, a march of roiling black thunderheads over the valley.

This was our taste of Hurricane Arthur, and fairly mild it was when compared to other folks' experience.

It got me to thinking about weather in a historical sorta way. Before Arthur went strolling up the coast, I had a week of weathermen showing me charts and maps and making dire predictions.

If I'd had a herd of sheep I would have moved them to the lower meadow or the upper hill or whatever. I would have made sure the roof of the hen house was tapped down tight and in good repair. I could have gone out to the fields and brought the corn in. (We do Indian corn -- maize -- in this section of the world and it's getting ripe on the southern slopes.) I would have worried about the little baby peaches on the trees -- not that I could do much about them.

But all that last week before the storm the days were warm and sunny. There wasn't any warning in the sky. Without the internet, I would have been taken by surprise.

In all the ages before 'a cold front moving in from the west carrying moisture' and 'polar vortexes' and 'the jet stream shifting eastward' and 'European computer models' there would have been no warning. For my folks in 1800, rich and poor, every day of the growing season was another day disaster might strike.

my view of modern weather forecasting

They didn't have our modern weather shamans, but folks had weather lore and generations of experience and a double handful of superstitions about the weather. Maybe these worked about as well.

Our Georgian and Regency characters, from the highest to the most humble, would have known all the old jingles and folk sayings.

Shakespear said, "Like a red morn that ever yet betokened, wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field, sorrow to the shepherds, woe unto the birds, gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.”

Matthew XVI 2-3: "When in evening, ye say, it will be fair weather: For the sky is red. And in the morning, it will be foul weather today; for the sky is red and lowering.”

Which is just a whole lot of general agreement on this principle.

Now, when I see a brilliant red sunset on the horizon, I figger there's dust flying around in the upper atmosphere. Maybe a volcanic explosion somewhere in the world.

attrib Alvesgaspar

After the 1883 explosion of Krakatoa in Indonesia, the ash caused "such vivid red sunsets that fire engines were called out in New York, Poughkeepsie, and New Haven to quench the apparent conflagration." These blood-red sunsets continued for years.

But I digress.

When our Georgian and Regency people saw these red sunsets or sunrises, they had some reason to guess at the day's weather.

Sunsets and dawns are colorful because at those times light from the sun passes through a lot of atmosphere to get to us and picks up coloring on the way. That's why we don't so much get that 'red sun at noon, expect dragons soon' sorta vibe.

In Europe, weather tends to move from west to east, so red light from the west means we're getting good illumination all that long way from the west. It's clear in that direction. That's nice stability in the weather that's coming.

On the other hand, the same reddish tinge to the east -- according to current meteorological lore -- means lots of moisture and clouds in the atmosphere above the observer and thus the likelihood of rain. (I keep reading these explanations and they strike me as fairly 'the dog broke the lamp' specious.)

Or, possibly, since the weather moves west to east, maybe red sunrise in the east is telling everybody that the good weather has scuttled past them and off that way and they missed it. Tough luck.

Howsabout,See a ring around the moon, a storm is sure to follow soon.

Here, meteorologists make the fairly simple and common-sense-ical explanation that the rainbow like ring that sometimes makes a halo around the moon is cause by ice crystals in the high atmosphere. These high altitude clouds are the early edge of a low pressure system moving in.

Logical enough. But yes, I do like the rhyme better than all that "low-pressure system front" guff.

St. Swithin, of course

Then there's St. Swithin's day, which is next week, July 15, and part of the reason I'm blogging this today. If St. Swithin's day is dry, the the next forty days will be dry. Contrariwise, if it rains on that day, we got forty days of rain. Google boatbuilding.

There is a whole mass of folk belief that some people can predict the weather. Either they just 'know' or they 'feel it in their bones'. Makes sense to me that changes in air pressure would be felt by the already-sensitive nerves around old wounds, healed bone breaks, and arthritic joints.

And there's lots of lore that says birds can sense a storm on the way and they take shelter. Or cows lie down in the field.

My dog, who is a great lump of a lazy hound most times, can feel thunderstorms coming long before the sky clouds over and the temperature drops and the air gets that crisp taste to it that tells even a human dolt like me that a storm's coming. Mandy -- the dog -- goes searching frantically around the house for someplace safe to hide. Behind the water pump. Under my desk. In the bedroom behind the bed where she cannot possibly fit.

Some lucky commenter will win of choice of any of Joanna Bourne's books.

So. Do you have an animal in your life who can sense bad storms approaching?Can you predict the weather?

Anne here, pondering about how this world of ours is shrinking. Quite a few of my friends are heading overseas at the moment — some are already there, some have recently returned home, one is on a plane as we speak, and plenty more are preparing to go in the next few weeks. And they're not short journeys, either — in every case their destination is the other side of the world, changing hemispheres and seasons, as well as countries.

When I was a kid, the world was an enormous, unknowable place, and not only because I was a child, with a child's perspective. It was full of pockets of mystery. Timbuktoo was more or less a place of myth, a storybook place somewhere in the far, far beyond. Now several of my friends have been there. I have the postcards to prove it.

Still a kitten, but always willing to snuggle up to a nice warm doggy!

Last Sunday I posted several pictures showing the odd/weird/hilarious sleeping positions Sparky gets into. This week, I'll be showing you where Sparky sleeps. Not one of the pictures will show Sparky napping in her actual bed because she prefers other alternatives!

Busted! Caught the Sparkster napping in a flimsy plastic grocery store bag. I was picking it up off the floor when Sparky popped up and gave me a cross-eyed look.

I usually use my own canvas and other bags when I go grocery shopping, and Sparky likes them even better than the flimsy store bags.

No bag is safe when Sparky's around. This is one of my heavy duty bags I use for grocery shopping.

And likewise, baskets and boxes really turn Sparky on. She has a special fondness for laundry baskets.

One of my laundry baskets--the perfect size for a catnap!

Open boxes are another favorite with Sparky. I was packing away some linens when I had to leave the room. When I returned, Sparky was fast asleep on top of a nice cushion of towels.

Oh, what a lovely soft bed!

And of course, there's nothing better than snuggling up against a couple of warm bodies.

Hey, guys, quit hogging the bed!

There's also another Sparky favorite: my printer!

There's a nice spot for the body, and it even has a built-in "pillow"

And finally, keeping up the fine tradition of cats everywhere that love to bed down in the bathroom sink, here's Sparky making use of my own bathroom sink.

Nicola here. On behalf of all the Wenches I’d like to wish all our US readers and friends a very Happy 4th July and indeed a happy day to everyone, wherever you are in the world!

Wench reader Jeannette asks: “A question about the water supply in London. Was there a muncipal water supply for Mayfair back then? Surely they didn't have wells. Was the sanitation, even in the wealthy neighborhoods, quite bad? How did one dispose of "waste", for example? Did they have trash pickup?”

All great questions and I am going to try and answer a few of them at least. I’m sure the other wenches will have done some research on this as well so will chip in with some fascinating facts on water, waste and wells!

On a Regency chat list we got talking about weddings at the same time as I was researching aspects for my MIP Too Dangerous for a Lady.(Out next April.) I thought I'd share some of what I learned here. None of it was entirely new to me, but there were aspects that were interesting.

The law about weddings changed in 1753/4 so this is about the situation after that and not in Scotland, which kept its old ways, leading to Gretna Green etc.

The law relating to weddings was designed to prevent abuses such as bigamy and the marriage of underage people without the consent of parent or guardian. Everything should be public and clear.

The simplest method was by banns. "The banns of matrimony shall be published in the church where they dwell three several Sundays or holidays, in the time of divine service." If the couple live in different parishes then the banns must be published in both, so everyone who knows them knows what they're up to.